


Retrograde

by mitochondriencocktail



Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: 1k, Introspection, M/M, Surreal, an odd amount of religious imagery but also the expected amount if you know me, kind of angst? but not terribly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 09:55:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13408782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mitochondriencocktail/pseuds/mitochondriencocktail
Summary: Richard's reflecting on Jared walking in on him masturbating last week. He's pulled back time and time again to it, and suddenly he's being thrust forward.





	Retrograde

**Author's Note:**

> [zayn malik voice] hey what's up it's been a whiiiiiiile
> 
> Sorry this is surrealist pretension. That's just who I am. I felt compelled to write this after listening to the song Retrograde by James Blake on repeat for like an hour because that's just who I am. Pardon any mistakes. It's 2AM and this is the first thing I've written in MONTHS, so I'm kind of proud of the fact I was able to crank something out that I don't absolutely hate.
> 
> Also SEASON 5 IS COMING SOON Y'ALL GET BACK ON THE HYPE TRAIN

The snapping of the keyboard underneath his fingers is his own personal form of meditation. The empty sprawl of blinking code singing from a neon screen is his hymn— nay, the gospel—  he’s compelled to transcribe and rewrite and transcribe and rewrite and transcribe until the tips of his fingers bleed real actual human blood. Richard’s gnawed them down despite his best efforts not to (but he wouldn’t call them his best, he could do better, much better, but he’ll never admit that out loud, not to other mortal human ears).

He’s moving backwards, he knows this, but two steps backwards one step forward. Isn’t that what someone said? He thinks he read it on the label of some tea Jared gave him once.

Richard’s eyes snap up towards a dark and empty corridor. They stare until the darkness swirls and swims menacingly in scary amorphous shapes and then he bores even further into it. Somewhere in the house, a pipe hisses, a warning, but he ignores it. Richard leans back in his chair, digs the heels of his palms into his tired eyes with a needy groan, a wishful piece of bait, and indulges in the inertia of it all.

Knees tucked up in his chair. The palpable bags under his eyes finding relief as he closes them and lets flickers of last week spark to life. Scraps of emotion long buried, thoughts he’d taken such meticulous care to rid himself of, dredged back up all because Jared had walked in on him— alone, pathetic, stopping with exasperation every time that slender face and piercing blue eyes appeared before his darkened vision.

In this version of reality, Richard had burned himself in the subsequent shame, and Jared had considerately stepped out of the room while Richard made himself decent. They talked about the upcoming financial report at the kitchen table like Richard hadn’t been fisting his dick twelve minutes prior. It wasn’t even awkward to be sitting there. Jared was miraculous like that, and that should’ve been the end of the matter. But, maybe, somewhere else, in another timeline, there was a version of Richard in his bedroom who would’ve met Jared’s gaze, sat up straighter; a silent invitation for— 

A thrill runs through Richard at the idea of this and he pulls his knees closer, his hoodie tighter around himself. He’s achingly hard, but possess no desire to touch himself. He likes this part. This sensation. The illusion. To release himself would be dispelling the fantasy, spilling semen and hormones like a horny teen on the busty blonde’s chest of the magazine he’d been hoarding, but this— this is something else. Richard wants something more from it. 

In this other reality, Jared knows exactly what Richard’s conveying and he steps into the room, hungry for exactly the same unnameable meal, willing to both eat and serve until they’re both bloated on tenderness. Sticky with salvation. Richard’s breath hitches at thought of being worshipped with kisses, taking communion on his knees, blessing a living saint with his own hot mouth. No matter where he tries to roam, Richard falls back into the deafening silence of his own holy reverence.  

His cock twitches.

He bites at his thumb then winces, pulling it away. Gross. It’s bleeding again. Words of warning echo through his head, so he pulls himself out of the chair and pads into the bathroom. He turns the faucet on and lets it run cool and soothing over his hands, cleansing himself, before scrubbing with burning soap and adding to the collection of bandaged fingers on his hands. That makes seven now. 

The house is a lot quieter without Jared now that he’s moved back to his condo. Richard stares at himself in the bathroom mirror and it’s still dark and the shapes are still swimming before his eyes and twisting into various forms and one attaches itself to his shoulder and pulls. It’s inky and soft and wraps around his left side, urging him to move. 

His neglected body cries for sleep. Richard continues to ignore it in favor of letting the splotch maneuver him forward; out of the bathroom, out of the house, out onto the street in the mild June air without any shoes. The concrete feels solid underneath his feet. He’s certain he’s losing his goddamn mind, but it feels so— nice. Crickets hum for him and the streetlights illuminate his way one by one like a trail of lanterns; each one disappearing behind him just as quickly as it appears, a blink of the eye. The air is sickly sweet with summer. 

If he passes anybody, they say nothing about Richard Hendricks, CEO of Pied Piper, lingering on the streets of Palo Alto like an accidental smear on the otherwise pristine canvas of a painting. 

The shape with no name curls itself more tightly around Richard and lurches him left and right and then left again. It’s familiar. It’s pulling him back to where he belongs. He’s hit with a particularly blinding radiance upon entrance of the building and the shadow dispels itself from his side, settles around his ankles instead like shackles that compel him to climb the four flights of stairs until his knees are cracking and his thighs are aching and his mouth is dry. He tries to swallow but can’t manage it.

Richard feels like he’s going to vomit. The door to 2C opens and he’s not sure if he’s knocked or not, but suddenly Jared is standing there, dark circles underscoring his pristine blue eyes and Richard’s choking on that unnameable thing once again. Jared is clad only in a thin white t-shirt and boxers, slippers on his feet, hair falling slack and unguarded. He stands with that slight curve in his shoulders like he’s ready to curl in on himself, an instinctive defense. The hum of the fluorescents have replaced the hum of the crickets and Richard’s acutely aware of the tiny rocks and possibly even pieces of glass puncturing the soles of his feet. He’s still inexplicably hard. 

“Richard?”

Right, that’s him. He is Richard. Standing ramshackled and half-crazed looking in Jared’s doorway with a hard-on. They’re alone now. The shadow has left, swallowed itself maybe like Richard wants to do to himself, but he can’t. He’s still just human. And, maybe, so is Jared. He’s far enough in his doorway that he’s shielded from the harsh fluorescents and lit only from the back, a single red lamp from somewhere in his condo. 

“Can I come in?” Richard asks. His mouth is still dry. He needs to drink. 

Jared doesn’t hesitate because why would he? He never hesitates when it comes to Richard. All he had to do was ask. Jared opens the door wider, but remains in the doorway, a solid figure. “Of course.”

Richard steps inside, steps forward finally into Jared. 

The door shuts behind him.


End file.
